Messenger memoirs

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FOR ONE UGLY moment, I thought the front loader was going to crush me. Flat on my back in the middle of Fifth Avenue, the 10-ton Cat bearing down upon me, I saw my career as a Seattle bicycle messenger flash before my eyes.

Fortunately, luck was with me that day. Instead of the front loader, a little car bumped over my foot as I rolled into its (safer) path. The damage? A broken toe—plus the insult of having caused my own injury by crashing in the first place.

It was the worst—or at least scariest—accident in my four years as a messenger; most I walked away from, bruised but unscathed. Crashing was simply part of the job, an accepted risk in a profession where fatalities occasionally occur. Everyone rides with a crash ticket, and eventually it gets punched. You just hope you land softly.

Why take such risks? Messengers don't have a death wish or a daredevil creed. Messengering is a lifestyle, an escape from the "fluorescent cubicle hell," a crusty veteran once explained.

Above all, it's the freedom of working outside and riding all day long, of being so ridiculously fit that a daily smoking habit or too many pints the night before barely fazes you. Rules are few, and the route you travel across town is your own—from back alley to corporate lobby. Low wages and the constant shadow of danger be damned: There is no gig that grants more independence or gives more of a rush.

The job skills are few. Pedal. Be on time. Soon you know everything there is to know about the city: finding free food; getting in back entrances; giving exact directions to tourists; and, of course, locating the best happy hour. Ubiquitous as taxis and coffee carts, messengers are essential pieces in the urban jigsaw puzzle.

With that street savvy comes a certain attitude. One part professional, the other part rogue, messengers can be menacing when they spring from traffic onto the sidewalk.

Should you be afraid? I still remember one expert rider skidding to a stop just before a stunned group of out-of-towners, then quipping, "Relax, I'm a professional." It's true—no messenger wants to hit a ped. Just remember to walk in a straight line and you'll be fine.

Few make careers out of messengering. Most move on to more stable indoor jobs. (This paper, for instance, employs four ex-riders.) But now that the weather's nice outside, it's funny how I don't remember the crashes so much.

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